


colours of the rainbow (shine so bright)

by whisperdlullaby



Series: colours of the rainbow (shine so bright) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: High School, M/M, and a family of boys who only wanted a girl, and harry's a total (yet loveable) brat, basically they're both moody teenagers who flirt like children, except not, featuring niall as the stoner best friend, in which they're very much sixteen yearolds in every way they can be, louis' a total arse, this is totally ridiculous and fluffy through and through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis' a popular skateboarder who's out to ruin Harry's life, and sometimes Harry just likes to wear nail polish and panties. Or alternatively, the one where Harry absolutely does <i>not</i> have a diary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	colours of the rainbow (shine so bright)

**Author's Note:**

> I completely rewrote harry’s family, sue me. sorry to zayn and liam who were left out this time, it’s niall’s turn to shine. title taken from the italobrothers.
> 
> thanks to the usual and always lovely [genuinelybelieve](genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com) and [decisionsandrevisions](decisionsandrevisionsfic.tumblr.com). you can find my tumblr [here](http://hazzaetlou.tumblr.com/post/98669137826/colours-of-the-rainbow-shine-so-bright-by).

 

Throughout Harry’s life, there has been a number of unexpected events to take place - starting with his mother’s death, followed by the realization that he’d rather kiss Jack than Rose at the ripe age of seven, and finally, when he took a sip of apple juice at his primary farewell, only to find that it wasn’t really apple juice (to this day, Harry still hopes for the tragic and painful death of James Harper). However, none of those could compare to the overwhelming shock he feels when Louis Tomlinson walks through the door of Rainbow Youth, the large, pride flag an exclamation point above his head.

He thinks three things.  _Holy shit,_  naturally comes first. It’s immediately followed by,  _there is no way_ Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson _just entered a Rainbow Youth meeting intentionally,_  and then,  _fuck, he is never going to let me live this down._

He isn't given the chance to form a fourth thought, because it's then that Louis notices him. Frozen and wide-eyed at the door, he reminds Harry of the deer his dad almost ran down coming home from the lake last summer - terrified and caught in the murderous headlights known as Harry’s sight. Similarly, Harry can’t look away from the quickly approaching wreck before him, his own face draining of colour.

It’s then that Harry realizes, sure, Louis Tomlinson might have just caught him at a meeting for queer teenagers, but he’s here too, isn’t he?

Holy shit. Louis Tomlinson is  _here._

Danielle, the coordinator, claps her hands to grab the attention of the group. The small groups littered throughout the small, brightly lit room break off as people scramble to find seats in the circle of chairs. At the door, Louis visibly jumps, coming back to life as he tears his eyes from Harry’s.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and disappears out the door as suddenly as he came in.

*

“Mate, he’s gay, I’m telling you,” Niall insists while Harry struggles with the phone in one hand and stirs a pot of spaghetti sauce with the other. “I so knew it. I always told you, didn’t I? That him making fun of you was just some childish way of flirting. You know, like how I used to push Zoe Richards down in primary.”

“Shut up. It is not.” If making his life a living hell is what people consider flirting, he’s screwed. Holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, he takes a taste of the sauce. More basil, he decides. “I’m supposed to be the one with the gaydar. That’s my right, not yours.”

“Well, you might want to get that fixed, man.”

Harry ignores him. “Do you reckon he’ll tell people?” he asks worriedly, turning the element down on the noodles. In the living room, the sports channel is blasting obnoxiously loud. “You know, that he saw me there?”

Niall snorts. “Why would he? Unless he wants people to know he was there too - which I highly doubt.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He breathes a sigh of relief. Louis wouldn’t, anyway. He couldn’t. He may be a prick, but no one can be  _that_  mean.

Can they?

“Do you really think he’s gay?” Harry asks after a moment, stirring a spoon through the softening noodles. An eruption of his father’s cheers startles him, causing the phone to slip and crash on the floor. He curses, bringing it back to his ear. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, of course he fucking is, he was at your gay meeting.”

“I thought he was seeing that Hannah bird, though. They’re always all over each other in the hallways.”

“Closet case,” Niall answers simply.

“I don’t know. Maybe he just came for the lesbians,” Harry reasons. It’s happened before, he’s sure. Straight guys go crazy for lesbians, don’t they?

“That’s what the internet is for. Trust me, mate. I’d know,” he says. “No straight bloke would be caught dead in a gay group just for that.” Niall insists on calling it Harry’s ‘gay group’ no matter how many times he tries to tell him it’s a support group for LGBTQ teens. (“Whatever, man.” He shrugged indifferently, shooting Harry‘s guy with his plastic controller. “It’s the same thing.” It really isn’t, but Harry gave up on the argument a long time ago.)

Harry rolls his eyes.

When Harry’s dad saunters into the kitchen, he goes straight for the stove, peering over his son’s shoulder. Harry can still hear the clear tone of the sportscaster coming from the next room. He’s not sure why he’s fazed anymore. It’s been the soundtrack of his home for as long as he can remember.

“Is it done?” his dad mouths.

Harry nods, switching off the elements. “I gotta go,” he tells Niall. “Dinner’s ready. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Have fun daydreaming about The Tommo.”

“Bugger that.” Harry scowls. Without waiting for a reply, he clicks off the phone and drops it onto the counter with a heavy clatter. Bloody Niall and his smartass comments.

“So, who was that you were talking about?” his dad asks, mischief evident in his voice. His ability to eavesdrop on Harry’s conversations while the television plays louder than a person can think requires serious skill.

“Were you listening to my conversation?” Harry demands, frowning. He used to know the exact number of times he caught his dad eavesdropping, but he lost track somewhere in year nine.

He smiles guiltily from where he’s setting a plate on the table.

Harry shoots him a heated glare. He’s almost entirely certain that none of his brothers had this issue. Taking the pot of noodles, he drains the boiling water into the sink. “No one. Just this annoying bloke from my English class.”

Michael saunters into the kitchen a moment later, and their dad turns to him, beaming. “Your brother’s got a boyfriend.”

“Dad,” Harry cries, teeth baring.

Michael’s reply is instant. “Should I beat him up?”

“No. You shouldn’t beat him up because he’s not my boyfriend,” he grinds out, knuckles turning white from where they’re gripped around the pot handles. “He’s a straight bloke from my English class, and he also happens to be the world’s biggest prat.”

“But he came to your rainbow meeting,” his dad points out.

“Yes, but -”

“And you like him,” he says decisively, taking the noodles from his son.

“I do not like Louis Tomlinson.” Louis is the most repulsive and obnoxious person Harry has ever had the displeasure of knowing. He’s rude and cocky, and he’s not even that good-looking. (Well, okay. So, maybe he’s kind of cute in a boyish, dirty teenager kind of way, but no. Harry would rather drink another bottle of James Harper’s urine than have Louis Tomlinson as his boyfriend.)

“Louis Tomlinson?” Theo asks as he enters the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. Harry always thought Theo was the nicer, more compassionate twin, but he has an inkling that his mind will be changed some time in the next twenty-five seconds. “Is that the one that’s scribbled in hearts all over your diary?”

“I don’t even own a diary!” Harry cries, but he’s ignored by all three as they dig into the meal  _he_  prepared. He really doesn’t own a diary. A notebook that he sometimes write things down in, maybe, but it certainly doesn’t have Louis’s name in hearts anywhere. Maybe crossbones and daggers, but no way in hell would he ever put anything even closely relating to hearts around that revolting name. “God, I hate you all. I’m running away and joining the circus,” he says dramatically.  

“Cool,” Michael says through a mouthful of food. “We’d get a family discount then, right?”

His dad and Theo crack up while Harry huffs, pulling up a seat next to his dad. He shoots them all a scowl, and says defiantly, “I’m never cooking you guys anything ever again.”

Once again, he’s answered with nothing, not even an eyebrow twitch. But, as the one and only decent cook in the household, Harry knows it would take no longer than a week of boxed food and take-out before they all came crawling back to him.

Eleven years ago, Harry’s mum died from cancer, leaving her husband with four young boys. For Harry, growing up in a house with four other males might’ve been great had he liked sports and farting and talking about tits. However, he doesn’t, and being assigned the resident woman from the age of six has proven to be no less than exhausting at times.

Not even a year after his mother died, all three of his brothers had walked into the attic to find him dressed in her old clothes and makeup. After a few weeks of ridicule, they granted him his new title, one that he simultaneously takes pride in and resents. Thankfully, a few short years later, once he realized it was boys that he liked, they all but threw a party in celebration. In their eyes, he was the little girl his father always wanted, and the sister his brothers always wanted to simultaneously pick on and protect.

In the end, Harry knows things could be worse. A lot worse. At Rainbow Youth, he’s heard countless of stories of unaccepting families, ones that make him feel both grateful and guilty for ever wishing for something else. And while Harry takes a special liking to the colour purple and occasionally dons nail polish and silk underwear, he doesn’t think it’s an unfair request that they acknowledge him as a boy every once and awhile.

“Don’t worry, H,” his dad says, reaching over to ruffle his hair, “bring him over and we’ll whip him into shape. Right, boys?” He looks over at the twins and winks.

With smiles almost as identical as their faces, they reply, “You bet.”

Harry groans, slamming his head against the table. “I hate Louis Tomlinson.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s a lost cause.

By the way they laugh, and the way Michael says, “Sure you do,” he knows it’s not the end of it.

Not even close.

*

The following day in English, Louis doesn’t even look at him. Harry has to give him credit though, as it’s quite the feat when Harry sits one desk in front of him, directly blocking his view to the chalkboard. On the plus side, however, this also means that Louis doesn’t make fun of his outfit choice, or hiss ‘nerd’ or any other highly developed insult that he’s capable of creating.

Louis is part of the large group of obnoxious teenage boys that hang out in the north courtyard and perform mediocre tricks on their skateboards. This is all done with a steady flock of younger girls in short skirts ogling them and causing their already inflated heads to become two sizes larger. For that reason, along with his annoyingly flawless appearance, he’s in a class all on his own (he even has his own infamous, obnoxious nickname. 'The Tommo,'  _really?_  The appeal is lost on Harry.). Because Harry is none of these things (flawless, obnoxious, a skateboarder, or any shape or form of popular), Louis seems to figure this gives him more than enough reason to have tormented Harry since the third day of secondary, starting with his unruly, afro-like curls. Harry’s since learned how to tame his hair at least a little, but 'curly' remains, and so has the list of taunts, which has also grown substantially. All of this had been at least somewhat tolerable until the end of ninth year when he had forgotten to take off his yellow nail polish from the weekend. It’s not that he wears nail polish all that regularly, but when he does, he’s certain not to make that same mistake again. It doesn’t matter that it’s never happened again though, because Louis will never let it go. Harry’s certain that he’ll be forty, and Louis will make a special point to look him up in the phonebook just to ring him and laugh.

By the time the bell rings, signalling the end of class, Louis is already out of his seat and halfway through the door. He doesn’t even try to knock Harry’s books out of his hands. Maybe seeing Louis at Rainbow Youth was the best thing that could ever happen to him, after all.

At lunch, Harry meets Niall behind the janitors’ shed located at the abandoned side of the schoolyard. Niall pulls an already rolled joint out of his tin case - one of many - and lights the end with a bright blue Bic lighter. “He likes you, mate,” he says once Harry finishes recapping the events of English class. He puts his lips to the end of the joint and sucks in. On the metal shed in front of them, Harry eyes the same  _Phil likes men_  and detailed drawing of a weed leaf that he’s studied countless times before. Niall waits, then says with a long stream of grey smoke, “He didn’t want to look at you because he was worried you would see all the love dripping from his eyes.”

Harry replies with an exaggerated eye roll, along with a very simple but meaningful, “Bugger off.”

Chuckling, he rolls the joint between his lips and takes another drag. “It’s true,” he replies, exhaling.

“Can you please not blow that in my face?” Harry snaps, waving the thick smoke away.

Niall mutters an apology.

Thanks to him, Harry constantly smells like weed. He’s never even tried the stuff himself, either. (Well, okay, maybe he had taken a puff before, but you could barely count it. He ended up coughing for ten minutes, then spent the next half an hour with an uncontrollable need to eat Niall’s entire cupboard. Goes without saying, he hadn’t tried it again).

“But, dude, really. Remember that time in year ten when he told the entire school that you gave Mr. Davies head for an A?”

Harry winces. The memory he had been trying so hard to avoid for the past year suddenly rushes back to him all at once. It was untrue, of course. Not only has he never given  _anyone_  head, he certainly would not have done it for the sixty-year-old science teacher who smells distinctly of the boys’ locker room after a mile run. In addition, Harry earns his A’s without the help of sexual favours, thank you very much. Either way, he was tormented for the rest of the school year. He begged his dad to let him transfer schools for an entire month, but to no avail. “Thanks, Niall,” Harry hisses bitterly. “It must’ve slipped my mind, but thank you for giving me the opportunity to relive that. I really appreciate it.”  

He cracks up, choking slightly on the smoke that’s still caught in his throat.  _Good,_  Harry thinks, eyeing him narrowly,  _you choke_. “Oi, all I’m saying -” He stops mid-sentence to look down at his joint, pinching the end together with careful concentration. One thing Harry’s learned since Niall took up his hobby back in year ten is that five minutes into his smoking up, it’s nearly impossible to keep a conversation with him.

Harry snaps his fingers in front of his eyes, irritated. “ _Niall._ ”

He looks up, startled. “Oh, sorry,” he says, eyes already coloured with thin, red veins. “All I’m saying is that he only said that because he wanted you to give him head. Where else would it come from? I mean, he was obviously thinking about - about your head. I mean, you giving head.” He stops, eyebrows knitting together with an expression of pure disgust. Taking another long exhale of his joint, he says, “Man, bad image in my brain right now.”

Harry stares at him blankly.

It takes Niall a few minutes, as well as a few more puffs, before he notices Harry’s glower. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m being serious.” Snubbing the joint on the brick wall already black with ash, he tucks the roach back into his tin case. “You’ll see, okay? He definitely fancies you.”

“Well,” Harry says defiantly, crossing his arms across his chest, “even if we were in some alternate universe where that was true, that doesn’t mean _I_  want  _him_.”

There’s a total of three seconds where Niall only stares at his best friend, expression stony, before he bursts out into high-pitched laughter. “Okay, man.” He pushes past Harry, removing himself from the shadow of the shed. “Okay.”

“What the hell?” Harry exclaims, face heating with rage as he scurries after him. “I don’t!”

Niall laughs harder.

*

While leaving the centre that week, amidst the cluster of his friends, Harry nearly misses Louis leaning against the far brick wall, hidden in the shadows. He falters for only a moment, taken back by his unexpected appearance, but then continues on with the full intention of ignoring him entirely. He thinks Louis might actually let him get away with it until he’s boldly calling out, “Harold!”

Harry hesitates, unsure as to whether he should be the prat that blatantly avoids him or the bigger person. He sighs, telling his friends to wait as he reluctantly slinks over, heart pounding with adrenaline. As soon as he’s standing directly in front of Louis’ scrutiny, he knows he made the wrong choice. “What?” Harry scowls. Louis even looks irritating - with his tight jeans and flat-ironed hair and his stupid, green t-shirt with some stupid skateboarding brand splashed across it. God,  _he’s_  irritating. What is he even doing here? Did they not have some silent agreement to never acknowledge what happened? Shouldn’t he be off somewhere studying up on how to be a world class prat while sacrificing kittens to Aphrodite?

Louis looks nervous, eyes darting back and forth away from Harry’s. Though it’s only for a moment, and then his expression pulls into one Harry is more familiarised with. “So what?” he asks, mouth turned up into his usual, condescending sneer. “Are you gay or something?”

Harry turns to walk away. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with this in school. The centre is his safe haven, the only one next to his own home, and he will  _not_  let the likes of Louis Tomlinson ruin that.

“Wait,” Louis calls him back, voice unusually soft, “ _are_  you?”

When Harry turns back, Louis is staring back at him, eyes almost - gentle. “Yes,” Harry admits, chest puffing out in preparation for the inevitable jeers. He makes a mental note that even  _if_  Louis does call him a fag, Harry can ask why he showed up to a meeting for queer youth in the first place. Harry has never been given the chance to blackmail someone before, and it feels almost invigorating. “But you’re here too so -”

Louis stays silent as something brief and unrecognizable flashes across his features. Eventually he sighs and says, almost too soft to be audible, “I know.”

Harry blinks, surprised by the easiness. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Louis repeats.

Silence falls between them, heavy and awkward. Harry fidgets and Louis blinks for a moment before Harry’s had enough and turns to leave without another word.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” Louis asks after him.

Harry turns just briefly. “No.”

While there’s been plenty of rumours about Harry’s sometimes obvious sexuality, he had never actually confirmed it to anyone at school besides Niall. Call him a coward, but he was planning on keeping it that way. He sees the way they treat Jude Collier, an openly gay sixth former. Harry already gets teased enough, and he’d hate to see what would happen with the tacked on “out and proud” factor. He’d have to be delusional to want that. His family knows, Niall knows, his friends at Rainbow Youth know, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s all that needs to. He never thought in a million years that he’d admit it to Louis Tomlinson of all people. That was like asking for his death to be served to him on a platter. But he never expected to see Louis walk through the door of the centre, nor did he expect some sort of strange, unspoken admittance of his own possible homosexuality.

Harry returns to school expecting to never hear from Louis again. It seems that it might be that way when an entire week passes without Louis throwing spitballs at him or making fun of how deep his voice is during a presentation. In fact, Louis doesn’t so much as even  _glance_  in his direction. It’s like he’s invisible.

But then, while leaving English that following Monday, Louis knocks his books out of his hands. The laughter of him and his mate’s echoes all the way down the hallway.  

While bending down to collect his loose, scattered papers and pens, Louis and his mate's laughter echoes all the way down the hallway.

Harry smiles to himself.

*

The following lunch, Niall overdoes it with his weed intake. Consequently, he walks Harry to class in hopes of taking some of the edge off before going to his own. Despite his surprisingly trouble-free track record, Harry’s still skeptical that he’ll be able to, with the way he’s spaced out and languid, eyes so red you could undoubtedly see them from across the classroom. He appreciates the company though.

Harry spots Louis across the hall, chatting to a few of his mates who spend more time skateboarding than they do in class. While waiting for the bell to ring, he catches Louis glancing at him twice, seemingly half-involved in what Harry can only imagine is the hundred thousandth debate on who can do the best ollie - a debate he’s had the displeasure of hearing more than ever needed.

When the bell sounds, Niall jumps, startled, eyes tearing from the clock where he was watching the second hand go around and around. Harry rolls his eyes, laughing, and Niall blinks up at him.

“You are so screwed.”  

Louis passes by, two mates trailing close behind. “Is that your boyfriend, Styles?” he asks, lingering at the doorway, the corners of his mouth turned up and eyes flashing pure evil. His minions snort, slapping him on the back.

Harry stares back, very pointedly. “ _Really?_ ”

That’s enough to notice his error as Louis turns white, smirk clearing off his face in an instant. He darts into the classroom without a word, the minions watching after him in confusion.

Niall snorts out a laugh, a dopey grin on his face. “It’s love,” he says.

Harry socks him in the arm. “Bugger off.” He stalks into the classroom after Louis, leaving Niall to stand in the hallway, stoned and alone.

Louis’ sitting in his regular seat. He doesn’t seem to notice Harry as he passes by, too intent on staring down at his desk and chewing on his thumbnail in what appears to be severe anxiety.

 _Good,_  Harry thinks haughtily, taking a seat at his desk in front of him. Serves him right.

Not even ten minutes into the lesson, his notes are interrupted as a piece of crumpled paper lands on top of his notebook. He only stares at it at first, before slowly turning to look over his shoulder at Louis, who is watching the board with suspicious fixation.

He unrolls the crumpled ball carefully, worried there will be a wad of spit waiting for him. However, there’s Louis’ messy scrawl instead, reading,  _meet me in the third floor toilets after class?_

Scoffing, Harry crumples the paper back up and shoves it inside his sweater pocket.

Yeah. Right. Who was he kidding? Louis would have to drug and kidnap him before Harry ever agreed to meet up with him. Anywhere.  

Harry already made the mistake of admitting to his worst enemy that he’s gay, and he’s certainly  _not_  going to put himself into that situation  _ever_  again.

*

Harry meets him in the toilets.

As expected for the third floor toilets, it’s deserted. It’s small and far enough away from most classrooms that it’s hardly ever used, and therefore never cleaned and always out of toilet paper. Only Louis is there, leaning against the brick wall, plaid boxers filling the space between his jeans and t-shirt. He smiles, amused, like he’s been expecting him.

Harry scowls. Why had he even come? He definitely shouldn’t have come. “Okay, before you say anything, I just want to say that I told you I wouldn’t tell and I won’t, but I just don’t see how it’s fair that you still get to go around calling me gay with all of your mates. Because I could, you know, tell them.”

Louis blinks, appearing mildly shocked. The thing is, while Harry talks a lot about how much he hates Louis behind his back, he’s surprisingly silent on the matter when it comes to any face to face interactions. Harry likes to attribute it to him being nicer, the bigger person of the two, but deep down he knows that it has a lot more to do with his lack of courage. Harry’s never been the type for confrontation with anyone other than his family or Niall - so it’s no doubt that he’s especially awful at it when it involves someone who looks and smells and sounds like Louis Tomlinson.

A moment passes before Louis’ eyes drop to his feet, lip between his teeth. “I know,” he says, so quiet, it almost doesn’t reach Harry. “I just - it’s not like - I’m not gay, okay?” His gaze briefly meets Harry’s chin before dropping again.

Not having a clue how to reply, Harry opts for staring at the tight line of Louis’ jaw instead.

“I just wanted to see.”

Harry can’t say he believes him. What’s there to see at a queer youth group when you’re not queer yourself? “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Harry shrugs. He doesn't even  _care_. Louis can be a cocksucking queen for all he cares. It has nothing to do with Harry.

Louis’ lip remains between his teeth, knobby knees jiggling. It takes a moment, but it finally occurs to Harry. Louis’ nervous. Sure, Louis is a proper arse, and sure, Harry hates him, but it would take a lot for him to tell someone outside of Niall. As much as Harry would’ve liked to keep his distance from Louis, they share this secret now. They’re united in a way. Add in the fact that even  _if_  he wanted to out Louis, there’s very little chance anyone would believe him anyway. All he’d end up doing is outing  _himself_. It’s Louis Tomlinson, after all, the very heterosexual skateboarder who gets all of the girls, and he’s Harry Styles, the klutzy nerd who carries a tote bag and was caught wearing nail polish.

Without warning, Louis takes two, large strides towards him. At first, Harry thinks he might hit him, but then he’s reaching for the back of his head instead. Harry stands, completely frozen in bewilderment as Louis pulls him forward, mouths connecting at an awkward angle.

Louis doesn’t pull away instantly, mumbling excuses like Harry half expects. Instead, his lips begin to move tentatively against Harry’s, slipping into a position that feels a little more than okay. For some insane reason that can only be attributed to the dizzying aroma of piss, instead of pulling away and knocking him in the face, Harry slowly begins to mimic his movements, mouths awkwardly massaging together.

The temporary lapse of sanity doesn’t last long, however, before he’s yanking himself away. His back comes into contact with the wall, hitting with a noticeable thump.

Louis’ eyes are wide and blown-out, looking more frightened and confused than even Harry feels. And he feels pretty damn confused, alright.

“What the -?!” Harry demands, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Oh my god, Louis just kissed him. Louis  _kissed_  him, and he kissed back. “You can’t just go and - you can’t just do that!”

His shoulders pull back at once, the familiar, menacing gaze taking his expression once again.  _This_  is the Louis Harry knows, not the scared, nervous kid whose mouth had just landed on his for some unfathomable reason. He catches the difference though - the jiggling leg, the heaving chest, the pinkened cheeks. He feels mildly triumphant, but too bewildered to pay much attention.

“What? Like you didn’t like it,” he sneers arrogantly.

“I did not like that!” Harry’s heart is pounding against his ribcage, adrenaline pouring into his veins. He  _hates_  Louis.

He snorts, doubtful. Harry clenches his fists at his sides, fantasizing in vivid detail what it would be like to punch him right in the jaw.

“I didn’t!” It was horrible. He’s going to have to spend the entire next period in here washing his mouth out with soap. He’s not even sure that will work. They’ll probably be forever tainted with  _pure evil._  “And what about you? You were the one - you just - it was  _you_.”

Louis laughs, loud and biting. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had a lot better.”

Feeling his entire face flourish with heat, Harry pushes away from the wall, yanking open the heavy iron door. “Well, good then,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You sucked too,” he says in an afterthought, the door slamming shut behind him before Louis can return with an insult.

He ends up in the second floor toilets, after all. Instead of washing his mouth out with soap, he stares back at his reflection, searching for a difference. A gleam in his eye. A sudden visible maturity.

Nothing.

Groaning, he presses his hot cheek against the mirror. There’s no way Louis fucking Tomlinson was his first kiss.

No way.

*

Louis  _kissed_  him.

*

Niall laughs at him.

Harry had the worst first kiss in the history of first kisses, and he laughs at him. He has no compassion, when clearly Harry, his best mate, is in insufferable pain.

“Oh, whatever. You totally loved it.”

“Fuck you.” Harry socks him in the arm. He doesn’t flinch. “I did not!” It wouldn’t even matter if, hypothetically, it was a good kiss, because it was ruined by the sole fact that it was Louis Tomlinson. You know, all hypothetically. The kiss sucked in reality. He’s a horrible kisser. Horrendous.

It’s not that Harry wanted to wait until he was barely sixteen to have his first kiss. It’s just that he’s never found a guy who was for one, gay, and two, you know, even remotely interested in him. Originally, Harry had started going to Rainbow Youth in hopes that he’d meet a fit bloke and they’d fall happily and totally in love. However, Harry quickly found out that most of the members were, and still are, lesbians. The only guys he’s ever known to come through the doors were either taken or not interested, or Harry wasn’t interested in them. Harry suspects there might have been a thing between him and this one guy, Mikey, but he unexpectedly moved back to Liverpool before anything happened.

Niall snorts in the same way Louis did, and Harry glowers darkly at him. “That’s it. We’re no longer continuing this friendship. I’ll find someone else who has the capacity to feel sympathy for someone clearly in pain.”

With a last lick to his freshly rolled joint, Niall stands from his bed and heads toward the door without a word.

“Am I expected to follow?” Harry asks indignantly.

Niall says nothing and turns around the corner.

Harry groans and follows.

*

They have a substitute teacher in English the next day. Louis takes it as a free pass to sit on the opposite end of the classroom from Harry, surrounded by a herd of his obnoxious mates. It’s fine by Harry, though. There’s no way he’d be able to concentrate with Louis practically breathing down his neck.

Okay, so maybe he can’t concentrate anyway.

But neither can Louis, it seems. Not with the way he’s constantly flirting with the girl in front of him, like it’s his sole purpose for being on this planet or something equally disgusting. She’s not even  _that_  pretty; her eyes are too far apart, her forehead is too big, and Harry’s pretty sure even he can apply makeup better than her. But whatever. If Louis wants to kiss cute boys, then flirt with barely attractive girls, then fine. He can do whatever he pleases. It’s not like Harry cares or anything.

Just his luck, on the way out of class, they end up squashed together in the trample of students attempting to be the first one out the door. Their eyes meet for only a brief second before their heads snap in opposite directions so quickly that Harry’s worried he might have gotten whiplash. It’s no more than ten seconds before they finally make it out into the hallway, but it feels centuries too long.

They turn in separate directions. Harry counts to two before sneaking a glance over his shoulder, only to see that Louis is doing the same. Their eyes meet again, barely, before Harry’s turning away and storming around the corner, heart beating soundly in his chest

*

“So, he kissed you? Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that!” Harry nods vigorously, anger pitting in his stomach over the mere memory. “I mean, the nerve of him, right? Who thinks you can just go and kiss someone like that? Especially someone who hates your guts as much as I hate him. I mean, I hate him, Brittney. Hate. Detest. I  _loathe_  him.”

She nods, eyes wide with sympathy. Next to her, her girlfriend, Kelly, bites back a smile. “You really hate him that much huh, Harry?” she asks.

Harry nods again desperately. “Yes, I do. I hate -” He’s interrupted by a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to see Danielle, a suspicious smile tugging on her lips. Harry quirks an eyebrow in question, and she nods her chin towards the door.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

His eyes fly towards the door, where, sure enough, Louis stands, the large rainbow flag spread above his head. His eyes deliberately dart away from Harry’s, gaze never resting within a five meter radius from where he sits. His arms are crossed, his foot tapping, like he’s actually attempting to appear aloof over this situation. Like Harry’s the one inconveniencing  _him_. God, the nerve.

Why is he even here? Again?

“Is that him?” Brittney asks, voice holding far too much excitement for it to be appropriate.

“Yes,” Harry growls, eyes narrowing.

“Well,” Kelly says, nudging his shoulder, “go get ‘em, tiger.”

He directs his glare towards her. “What don’t you get about the fact that I ha-”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says flippantly, “you hate him. You said so once or twice.” She opts for a harder push this time, and Harry stands grudgingly, all the while keeping his heavy glare on her.

She smiles, and blows a kiss.

Louis only fixes his gaze on Harry once he’s stopped a foot away from him. Even still, it doesn’t stray much further than his chin. “What are you doing here?” Harry demands, folding his own arms across his chest, hip popping.

“I’m - can we -” He nibbles on his bottom lip, and scratches behind his ear.

It sounds eerily quiet around them, and when Harry turns to look over his shoulder, he sees half the room quickly divert their eyes. He groans just as Louis shuffles his feet, letting out a long breath. “Can we talk? Somewhere - somewhere that’s not. You know, here?” His eyes dart around the room at the mention, mystified, as if he can’t believe he’s actually here.

 _Harry_  can’t believe he’s actually here.

“Uh, I guess so…”

Louis leads the way down the hallway, Vans slapping against the white linoleum. He pushes open the door to the stairwell.

Louis doesn’t say anything, and Harry’s not going to be the first. Louis came here, to talk to him. If Harry had his way, he’d be completely content never speaking to him again. He’d be good never seeing him again, that. Leaning back, he grips at the banister, waiting.

Peeling a layer of skin off his bottom lip, Louis folds his arms timidly over his chest and kicks his heel against the painted grey brick. He brushes his chin against his shoulder, and says, almost inaudibly, “I think I - well.” He coughs. “I think I might be, like. I don’t know, bisexual or something.”

Harry stares at him, waits a moment and then says, evenly as he can, “Okay.”

Louis looks up, awed. “Okay?” he repeats. “I told you I like blokes and you say, okay? Do you even  _know_  any other words other than okay?”

“Well, what else do you want me to say? I kind of already figured.”

He makes a face, and says nothing.

“Why did you come all the way over here to tell me that?” Harry finally asks. His stomach flips, unable to come up with an answer that he’d like to hear.

Louis shrugs, hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself kick one foot into the other. “I don’t have anyone else to tell.”

Harry shifts, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He can’t say arsehole Louis is his favourite person in the world, but at least he knows what to expect. This Louis, this scared, timid Louis, only makes him feel a little lost and confused. He doesn’t know what to say or do, whether to walk away or lend a hand. It might’ve been easy coming out to his family, but he remembers what it was like when he told Niall. He was a wreck for a week, always blowing it off, thinking Niall would immediately de-friend him. He knows how hard it was, and he can imagine it’s even harder for Louis, the cute posterboy skateboarder with all the girls.

Louis slides down the wall, pulling his thin legs into his chest.  “I don’t even know why I came that first day. I was curious, I guess. I called a time before, just because. I don’t know, I needed someone to talk to, figure it out with, because God knows I couldn’t myself. She told me to come in, and…” His shoulders drop, shrugging loosely. “I was kind of hoping I could just ignore it my entire life. Didn’t work out so well.”

“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Harry offers lamely, unsure of what else to say.

Louis laughs, hard and dry, head tilting back against the wall. “Easy for you to say.”

Harry carefully edges towards Louis, waiting for him to protest. When he doesn’t, he leans against the wall next to him, sliding down until they’re side by side. “It’s really not,” he replies, quietly. “In case you noticed, I’m not exactly out to the school either.”

“At least it’s not a big deal if you do. I mean, cause, you know.”

“Because I’m a loser?” Harry fills in.  

Louis cracks a smile. “I was going to say because you give enough hints with your clothing choices and rainbow bracelets and painted nails, but that too,” he jokes, lightly.

Harry shoots him a half scowl, and knocks his shoulder into his. “Bugger off,” he says, but it lacks the usual heat.  

Louis says nothing, smiling into his knees. They sit in silence, and Harry comes to the startling realization that this is the first time he’s been around Louis without feeling a deep sense of hatred and annoyance. He can be a kind of okay person when he’s feeling depressed and vulnerable.

“Hey,” Louis says softly, head tilting to look at Harry, “I’m sorry for being such a prick all the time.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Not really, but okay.” There’s a pause before he’s chuckling lightly, an amused smirk on his lips. “If it’s any consolation, you weren’t that shite of a kisser.

Harry looks at him, unblinking. Louis has his face tucked into his knees, looking mildly embarrassed and confused, like he’s trying to figure out whether those words actually just came out of his mouth.

“Um,” Harry says, blushing. He breathes a secret sigh of relief. He would never admit it, but he’s been living in constant anxiety since, scared he’ll spend the rest of his life kissing horribly. “Thanks. Uh, I guess you weren’t either.”

Lifting his head, Louis offers a small smile, outstretching his hand towards Harry. “Truce,” Louis elaborates when Harry stares at him in confusion.

Harry takes in a breath, watching it for a second longer in suspicion. Slowly, he lifts his own hand and takes hold of Louis’. It feels oddly warm against his. “Truce,” he repeats, and smiles.

*

It’s not that Harry thought their truce would bring some magical transformation in which he’d gain sudden popularity (along with ace skateboarding skills, and maybe some impeccable charm and beauty, too), but he thought Louis would at least  _speak_  to him. Instead, it’s like Louis doesn’t even see him.

That first day in English, Harry attempts a few discreet glances in his direction, all of which go unacknowledged. In fact, it seems as if Louis has angled his entire chair away from him. It may just be due to his hyperawareness, but Harry swears Louis is acting even more obnoxious than usual - talking and laughing loudly with his friends, his smartass responses at full strength, enough that the teacher kicks him out of class five minutes early for being disruptive.

Just as well, Harry tells himself as he accidentally rips through his notes from pressing his pen down too hard. It was stupid of him to think that their conversation meant anything. Louis is still Louis - a loud, cocky, self-absorbed prat - gay or not, and Harry shouldn’t have let himself believe different for even a second. How foolish of him to think that he could be decent. Temporary lapse of sanity, that was.

By the time he’s heading for his last class of the day, Harry is totally over it and definitely isn’t fuming anymore, when he spots Louis coming towards him from down the hall. It takes a moment as he gets closer and the sea of students disperses for Harry to notice his arm is thrown over that Hannah bird’s shoulder. He bites down onto his tongue, unable to tear his eyes away as they pass. Once again, Louis sees right through him, and when Harry glances over his shoulder, they’ve already disappeared into the crowd.

This goes on for the entire week, and with every day that passes, any bit of connectedness he had felt with Louis at the centre has returned to once-familiar hatred. Never in a million years did Harry think he’d say this, but in a way, he’d almost  _prefer_  Louis’ taunts. At least that way he still felt like he was alive, and not so much of a nobody that his presence didn’t even matter.

When he tells Niall all of this, he barks out a laugh and slaps him on the back. “You mean you miss getting his attention?”

“No!” Harry explodes at once, jaw tightening as he flounders for a response. “I just - I -”

Niall blinks back innocently, waiting.

Groaning, Harry stomps his foot against the ground and turns on his heel, moving out from behind the shed. So what,  _whatever,_  maybe Harry is six, but his best mate is a total bastard who is not the least bit funny and is definitely  _not_  right.

By the time he’s seated in his next class, he’s pretty sure Niall is still laughing.

*

Harry doesn’t spend the rest of the day resisting the urge to climb atop the school roof and yell, “I do not need Louis Tomlinson’s attention!”

Followed by a very simple, yet heartfelt, “Bugger off, Niall.”

Nope.

*

Come the following Monday, Harry isn’t expecting anything from Louis. He focuses on the teacher, and doesn’t even so much as glance in Louis’ direction. Not that he has to anyway, as he seems to have made it his personal goal to achieve the status of  _Hall’s Cross’ Most Obnoxiously Annoying Person Ever_  by his constant attempt at jokes and obsession of drawing dick’s on every available surface.

Harry nearly chokes in shock when on the way out of class, amidst the noisy shuffle of students, Louis is suddenly at his side, discreetly whispering, “Third-floor toilets.” He’s gone before Harry can laugh in his face, and it’s only once he’s emerged into the hallway that Harry can feel the ghost of his hand lingering on his waist.

Harry doesn’t even know why he does it, especially when the entire walk to the toilets he’s telling himself to turn around and go straight to math. Besides being a total arse to him for the past two years, he’s also spent the past week ignoring him. He doesn’t deserve any of Harry’s pity or sympathy, or like, anything for that matter. He doesn’t deserve even the faintest of acknowledgement. Harry was nice to him once, and he was lucky he even got that. Harry chooses to blame it on the questionable meatloaf he ate in the cafeteria that day, it clearly messed with his mind. And today? Well, probably the eggs his dad made, of course.  

Louis’ not there by the time he arrives at the toilets, and he waits a total of thirty-two seconds before he thinks,  _bugger that,_  and turns to leave again. It was bad enough he even came in the first place, but he definitely is  _not_  going to wait for him. He’s not going to let Louis think he’s worth the inconvenience.

Just as he reaches the handle, the door comes flying open, knocking him straight in the centre of his forehead. He goes flying back, hand pressing against his face as he curses out in agony. “Bloody hell!”

“Oops,” is Louis’ infuriatingly cavalier response while stifling a laugh. “Sorry, mate.”

Harry glares at him through his fingers. Louis’ presence does little to dull the ache shooting through his skull. Not only was this a stupid idea, but it actually caused him physical harm as well. He should’ve known. Being around Louis never causes anything good. “What do you even want?” he asks, exasperated.

Louis shrugs.  _Shrugs._  “I dunno.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and goes to move around Louis to attempt another exit. “This is pointless.”

“Wait,” Louis says quickly, moving to block his path. Harry stops just before they go crashing into each other, inches apart while Louis’ big, electric blue eyes seemingly reach inside and steal Harry’s soul. Maybe  _that’s_  where he gets all his power from. Stealing souls and sacrificing kittens. Why Harry never realized this sooner is beyond him.

Harry takes one large step back, gaze falling to the dirt-tracked floor. Instead of Louis explaining why exactly Harry should wait, Harry finds himself saying, “Why have you been ignoring me?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth he presses his nails into his palms, mind repeating a symphony of stupidstupidstupid. How dare his voice betray him and make it sound like he actually  _cares_  or something. Because he doesn’t. Care, that is.

“Sorry.” Harry doesn’t think he’s sorry at all.

He flounders for a response before folding his arms across his chest and saying as casually as I can, “I don’t actually care what you do, I just hope you don’t think we can be secret mates or something.”

“Only not-so-secret mates, right?” Louis asks. That bastard has the audacity to smirk.

Harry scoffs, maybe a little too loudly for his liking, but it does the trick just the same. “Yeah, right.”

Louis’ still smirking, and Harry clenches his fist harder to stop himself from smacking it off his stupid face. “You’re like, really uptight, you know that?” His eyes are laughing.

“I am not!” Harry defends at once. “Ever think that you just  _make_  me that way?”

“I thought you didn’t care what I do.”

“I don’t.”

“But yet I still have the power to make you uptight?” Louis questions, one single, infuriating eyebrow raised.

“God!” Harry cries out, anger bubbling up into his esophagus. He goes to push past him once more. Did he mention this was a stupid fucking idea? Just like every idea he’s had when it comes to Louis Tomlinson, ever. “You are the most infuriating person -”

This time, Louis’ hand darts out to grasp his neck, and before Harry can process what’s happening, he’s crushing their mouths together. Harry stays tense, but Louis just keeps kissing him, and Harry - well, he swears he tries to pull away but his body just won’t catch up to his brain, and -

Harry tumbles back, the bottom of his spine coming into contact with the counter. His arms stay straight against his sides, while both of Louis’ hands have taken to his neck, fingers brushing against his ears, and oh god. Harry is  _definitely_  kissing him back.

_Stupid._

Harry kisses him until Louis’ tongue is suddenly  _there_ , and Harry jerks back, chest seizing with fear. He puts both hands on Louis’ chest with the intention of pushing him away, but they both kind of just sit there while Harry demands, “What makes you think you can just keep doing that?!”

“Maybe because you keep kissing me back,” he offers haughtily. 

God, he’s such a prick.

“It’s instinct,” Harry defends. He’s not even sure that’s a real thing, but it has to be. He definitely didn’t kiss Louis because he  _wanted_  to, that’s for sure.

“And you like it,” Louis says decisively, the same smirk appearing on his lips. Harry’s face flourishes in colour, mouth opening in protest, but before he can say anything, Louis beats him to it. “You can’t deny it. You already admitted it.”

“No, what I believe happened was _you_  said I wasn’t a shite kisser, and I said I guess you aren’t either. That’s hardly  _liking_  it.”

Louis shrugs, unfazed. “You like it.”

“I can’t even - I’m not going to continue this conversation with someone as thick-headed and self-absorbed as you.” This time when Harry slides past him, Louis doesn’t stop him. He makes the stupid mistake of glancing at Louis before he’s out the door.

He’s still smiling, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he calls after him.

Harry scowls as the door shuts behind him.

*

Harry nearly considers skipping English class altogether the next day. If it weren’t for his flawless track record, he definitely would have.

The bell hasn’t even rung yet, when from his seat a few desks back, Louis says, “Hi Harold, how are you?”

Harry stares pointedly down at his binder, shoulders tense, and doesn’t dare give Louis the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. Halfway through class a crumpled paper ball lands on his desk, and Harry very seriously considers ignoring it all together until his curiosity gets the best of him. The only thing written on it is  _toilets?_ , with what he takes as one very passive-aggressive smiley face.

Harry snorts. He is definitely not going to -

Oh, hell. Who is he kidding? He’s definitely going to meet him in the toilets.

This time, Louis takes the path Harry normally does, and instead of walking together, Harry walks a whole five feet behind him, very pointedly not staring at his bum. He will not give Louis’ bum that satisfaction, even if it is kind of nice in a way that’s actually not nice at all.

Once the doors closed behind him, they both stare at each other blankly, unsure as to what they’re even doing here or what there is to say. Harry doesn’t necessarily feel like fighting today, not with Louis’ uptight comment still sounding in his ears, and not with the way he can still very distinctly remember the feeling of Louis’ tongue against his lips.

This time it’s Harry who steps forward, books dropping to the floor. He meets Louis just as he’s reaching forward, hand on his bicep and lips crashing together. He’ll think about the consequences of his actions later. He just needs to get it out of his system, is all. He figures he’s allowed to use Louis for some kissing practice after all the torture he’s inflicted on him. It’s totally his right.

Louis’ tongue doesn’t hesitate this time, and neither does Harry hesitate to open his mouth. Louis is warm and solid against him, tasting of smoke and cinnamon, which shouldn’t taste good at all but for some reason it so does. Harry can even taste it in his toes. He wonders what he tastes like. He hopes it’s the remnants of the nutella that he had for breakfast, and not the glass of milk. He can’t imagine stale milk tasting very good on someone else's tongue.

Louis’ hands are gripping his waist, and Harry would never admit that he feels like putty in his hands, except that he does. It’s his first real, like, french kiss, and he’s pretty sure it’s allowed whether or not the other person happens to be Louis Tomlinson. He’s certain the actual partner matters very little. Louis could like, be a girl and Harry would be just as into it.

He’s positive.

The bell rings, causing Harry to snap out of his momentary lapse of judgement. He doesn’t pull back all the way, and neither do Louis’ hands move from his waist. They stare at each other until Louis’ lips are curling up into his signature smirk.

“I knew you liked it.”

Harry rolls his eyes. However this time, instead of storming away in a huff, he thinks,  _fuck it,_  and leans in for another kiss.


End file.
